


Breathe

by ninhursag



Category: Incredible Hulk (2008), Marvel
Genre: F/M, Femdom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninhursag/pseuds/ninhursag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a really bad idea for Bruce to lose control. Betty keeps it for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

His eyes are wide open in the dark, fixed on her. He's down to nothing, fresh from the shower and bare everywhere, but for once it's not his body that has her attention. His eyes... she's watching his eyes, just thin blue rings of iris, his pupils so dilated they are almost black. She kisses his forehead, tastes the sweat on his skin already breaking out under the scent of cheap motel soap and water.

"Shhh," she whispers. "Breathe."

"Betty," he says. His throat moves when he swallows. "I don't want to hurt you. What if-- I could get excited and turn into that and--"

"You won't." She shakes her head and presses her fingers to his mouth. Just a little pressure on the surface, on his chapped, raw lips. "Just be quiet, just let me."

"Betty," he gasps, and when he parts his lips to speak, to breathe, she pushes her fingertips inside. His tongue is wet, soft. Pink when it stretches out to touch her skin.

"I won't let you hurt me," she tell him, she promises. "Just... just let me."

She watches him, watches his eyes, the way he stares. The way he finally blinks them closed and lets out a slow, soft breath. Goes limp, like all the tension, the fear he's been carrying under his skin is-- not gone. Never gone. But looser. Easier for him to bear.

"Say yes," she tell him. Stubble rasps against her cheek when she presses her mouth close to his. Not quite touching. He moans and leans up, reaching for her, but she pulls away. "Say yes, Bruce. If you trust me, say yes."

"I-- Okay," he says. His eyes stay closed but he arches up, kisses her fingers. A loose strand of her black hair brushes over his cheek and he wrinkles his nose and sighs like it tickles. "Okay. Yes."

"Good." She almost doesn't recognize her own voice. It's too low to be hers, hoarse. Satisfied. "That's good."

"You won't let me hurt you," he says and she nods when he opens his eyes to watch her.

She nods once and leans down again, catching his mouth. Tracing the edge of his lips with her tongue before slipping back again when he reaches for her. "I won't. I promise. Give me your wrists."

She expects a pause, for him to say something, to hesitate, to ask. He doesn't. He watches her, big eyed and quiet, his lips still parted from her touch. He lifts up his hands and gives them over, resting them in hers. They're strong hands, callused, but long and clever. Hands that have been big enough to cup her breasts, and hold her up, hold her down. Hands she's known for years, now gone strange and hard with scars and damage, but still here with her.

They're hers now. Her hands. She closes her fingers around his wrists and holds on tight for a moment, just feeling the slow, steady thrum of his pulse. Of this calm that he's giving her, or she's giving him. She's not sure it matters which.

She takes his wrists and presses them up, over his head. Lets them rest against the pillow and smiles when he gasps. "Betty," he whimpers. "Betty."

"Just breathe," she tells him. She leans back on her heels and strips off her shirt, quick and fluid, faster than she ever has before. The thin cotton is warm under her palms and for a second she tightens her fists in the fabric. She winds it tight, into a makeshift rope, while he watches, gaze flicking from her hands to her chest. She can see him strain to reach out, to touch, but his hands are hers now. He holds them still for her. "You're doing so good," she whispers. "Thank you for giving me this."

His hands twist and tighten while she wraps her t-shirt around his wrists, winds the makeshift bonds into a knot. It's a joke, really, nothing that could keep him even if he didn't... even if he was just himself. It's nothing, but when she finishes tying the knot his hands go lax, pliant in her grip. When she looks at him, he's smiling a little, eyes closed again.

She smiles too, and pulls up his hands by the bonds, bringing them up to her lips and kissing the inside of each of his wrists before letting them drop down to rest on his bare stomach. "I love you, Bruce," she tells him, letting the words ghost over his skin. "You're so... I love you."

She waits. She doesn't want to wait, not now. She can hear her own heartbeat, faster., tighter than his, like she might catch his curse from skin to skin contact. She can feel the body rush.

Feel the ache in her stomach, between her legs. Seeing him, loose and spread for her, easy everywhere except his cock. That's pressed up tight, resting against the smooth muscle of his belly. She knows exactly how it would feel under her hands. The silky weight of skin and the damp press of precome on the head.

It's almost begging for her touch. His whole body is almost open to her, but she stays there, still as she can, until his eyes open again and he's watching her.

"Keep your eyes open," she tells him, steady, steadier than she knew she had in her. He nods. His tongue slides out, and wets his lips, but his eyes stay wide and fixed. On her. Like she's it, everything. Like she's a world, his.

It makes her shiver, that gaze. His face. She keeps her eyes on his, on his face while she finishes stripping off her bra. Sliding out of skirt and panties. The silky fabric is damp under her fingers. She can smell herself, like she's been masturbating for hours instead of hardly touching herself.

"I haven't got-- no condoms," she tells him, and sighs as she presses a quick kiss on his stomach. Her lips just graze the head of his cock, a tease, not a touch. He whimpers and his hips twitch after her. "But, you'll live. I have some ideas. Maybe it will help you practice keeping your calm," she says and her grin widens when he huffs a laugh. It's the first time she's seen him laugh, the first time since he came back. It untwists something in her to see he remembers how, even about this.

She kisses him straight out then, kisses his sweet, smiling mouth. "Bruce," she says and she can feel the murmur of his breath when he says it back. When he says, "Betty, Betty, Betty." Like that's all there is, like it's a synonym for love you, love you, love you.

She wants to taste him, so she does, she does. Licks the long, sweet line of his throat, tastes the pulse point. "Breathe," she whispers, when she hears it too hard, too fast. "Be calm, be still."

"Breathe," she tells him, with her mouth pressed over his heart, tasting the smooth muscle before letting her tongue curl around a nipple. "Breathe. Just breathe and remember, you're mine," she murmurs, and soothes her mouth over his navel and down the thin trail of hair and down again.

He tastes heavy, of salt and bitter things, like the sorrow is spilling out of him. She slides down his body to taste him more, to get a better angle. Her legs fall open, she doesn't notice how or when, but they're curled around one of his thighs, straddling, and she's pressing herself against him, all wet and friction, moving in time with her mouth.

It should feel stupid, pressing her body against his like an unsure teenager, when she knows him, has known him, can close her eyes and remember exactly what he feels like inside. It should be too little, but it's not. He's watching her, she can see him when she angles up to look. His blue eyes, beautiful. His lax, bound hands, spread open wide and right there to cup her cheek when she presses it against one palm.

He's sure of her now. Calm and sure, absolutely trusting and that's enough, that she's got him. It's enough that she can get the rhythm to match, her mouth on his cock the slide of his thighs and hers. "Betty," he says, and he smiles at her. "My Betty."

Later, in New York, on a plane surrounded by angry men with guns, he'll smile like that at her, and his smile will be all she sees. And she'll take his bound, cuffed wrists in her hands and kiss them, and forget to be afraid. She has him. He's down to nothing, but he's hers and she'll make sure he's all right.


End file.
